


The Next Chapter

by MiraMira



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Getting to Know Each Other, Light-Hearted, Post-Deathly Hallows, Pre-Relationship, Workplace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 21:04:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4194828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiraMira/pseuds/MiraMira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The end of the war has left Pansy with more freedom than she ever dreamed possible, but she isn't quite sure how to use it.  Her new interview subject may be able to help her with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Next Chapter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pandir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pandir/gifts).



> I'm sorry if this isn't quite the pairing you had in mind, Pandir, but they connected in my head once I started reading your prompt suggestions and refused to be separated. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> (Contains references to past canon relationships.)

A bloodcurdling scream rips through Pansy's concentration, nearly causing her to blot out half a morning's worth of research. With the tiniest of sighs, she sets down her quill and pokes her head into her boss's inner sanctum, barely dodging a wadded-up scrap of parchment as it flies past her.

“Trouble, ma'am?” she asks.

Her boss blinks once from behind cats' eye spectacles, straightens out from her throwing stance, and smooths down her platinum blonde curls with a gentle _tsk_. “Rita, dear. Or Ms. Skeeter. 'Ma'am' makes me feel old.”

“Sorry, Ms. Skeeter,” says Pansy, having learned from experience that despite the apparent casualness of the offer, there is only so much bonhomie this particular employer is prepared to tolerate from her assistant. Not that it stops Pansy from calling Rita whatever she wants inside her own head. “Is it writer's block again?”

“Of course not,” Rita sniffs. “I told you, I don't get writer's block. I get writer's _flood_. Too many ideas scrambling to come out at once. But this isn't that, either.”

“Ah.” Pansy thinks for a second, then ventures, with caution, “Another rejected interview request?”

At least Rita doesn't scream this time, though a box of Quick-Quotes Quills goes scattering across the floor as she strikes her desk. “This could--will be the seminal account of the war. But I can't conjure up the atmosphere of the battlefield entirely from whole cloth, and secondhand accounts will only take me so far. _Someone_ who wasn't in Slytherin needs to talk to me.”

 _Good luck_ , Pansy thinks, but decidedly does not say, because she wants to keep her job. Which is a strange and frightening thought, for a Parkinson. But with the family fortune gone to keep Papa out of Azkaban, Pansy has been forced to learn such concepts as “marketable skills” and “budgeting.” Despite the occasional uncertainty about whether she will be able to afford food between paychecks, never mind the darling new robes in the window at Madam Malkin's, she has never felt more in control of her own life. She likes it. 

She even likes Rita, contradictory orders, blindness-inducing fashion sense and all. As far as she can tell, the feeling is mutual. Yet when Rita describes her as a “protégée,” or she tries to picture herself decades from now taking on another young witch to mentor, something in her goes a bit cold. She doesn't know what she wants for her future, but this isn't quite it.

A sudden cough from Rita brings Pansy back to the present with a start, where she finds Rita waving a long sheet of parchment in her face.

“Sorry,” says Pansy, hoping she sounds more like she's clarifying than completely confused. “You want me to...?”

Rita doesn't seem fooled. “Take the list. Pick out a few names, and ask if they'll let you interview them. You did a decent job with Zabini. Perhaps some of your other school chums will be more forthcoming with you.”

“But...” Pansy starts to object she has no such things, or the same amount of blackmail material she holds over Blaise, then remembers her bare cupboard and empty bank account again. “Yes, Ms. Skeeter,” she finishes instead, and retreats to the hall.

Once back at her desk, she examines the list. To her credit, Rita has already struck through Hermione Granger's name, though she still seems to hold out hope of landing Potter himself. Given the circumstances under which she last saw Potter, Pansy is not feeling particularly optimistic on that score.

She scans the rest of the names, and doesn't get far before one catches her attention.

It's not a particularly likely prospect. Wood or one of the other Quidditch players might be willing to go on the record simply for the publicity. So might the Weasley who works for the Ministry, if Pansy could only remember which one he is. And then there's Lovegood, who will prattle on at the slightest provocation, even if only one word in ten makes any sense. 

Pansy doesn't think she and Cho Chang have spoken two words to each other before. And then there's the little matter of her being Potter's ex-girlfriend. But she also broke up with him, and by all accounts never made any serious attempts to rekindle the relationship. Perhaps she's not so taken in by the “Chosen One” mystique that she can't be persuaded to talk.

Besides, if Pansy's lucky, maybe Chang doesn't even remember who she is. Which is also a strange thought for a Parkinson, especially Pansy. But such is her life now.

_Well, it's better than nothing, _Pansy decides at last, and pulls out a fresh sheet of parchment to pen her request.__

____

-

Pansy spots her interview subject the minute she walks into the Leaky Cauldron, and still almost fails to recognize her. From what little she can remember of Cho at Hogwarts, she pictures a conventionally attractive girl: petite, graceful, with fine black hair and bright eyes and a shy smile, but nothing to explain her impressive list of romantic conquests. This woman would draw the eye in any crowd. She wears a black tailored jacket, trousers that are daring even by current Muggle-influenced trends, and heels whose simple design calls attention to their craftsmanship. Her wine-colored blouse matches her lipstick, and her asymmetrical bob frames an iridescent rainbow of eyeshadow.

“Pansy!” she calls, a trace of schoolgirl enthusiasm peeking through her sophistication as she waves and rises as though about to offer a hug. Then, perhaps sensing Pansy is unprepared to respond in kind, she backs off and offers her hand to shake instead. “Er, Parkinson. Sorry. I don't know which you prefer.”

Somehow, Pansy manages to recover from her bemusement long enough to return the gesture. “Pansy. I've got a lot of questions to get through, and Parkinson will just take up time.”

Cho laughs, longer and far more genuinely than the quip deserves. “Pansy, then.”

“Thank you for seeing me,” says Pansy, once they have taken their seats and placed their orders. “Though I will confess, I'm a little surprised. You know I'm here on Rita Skeeter's behalf?”

“Yes. You said as much in your note.”

“Right.” Pansy chides herself for being nervous, then wonders why she is. True, this isn't like winding Blaise up with a few pointed questions (and maybe a drop or two of firewhiskey). But surprisingly enthusiastic reception aside, it isn't as though she's risking a personal connection if this goes poorly. She needs to relax and let things happen.

“...surprised you reached out,” she catches Cho saying, just in time. “But also intrigued. The few reporters I've dealt with never seemed interested in _my_ experiences. It's always been about Harry. Or Cedric.”

“Well, I can't say Harry won't be a presence in this book,” Pansy admits, thinking of his placement on the list. “But Rita is looking for the untold story. The angles other, more 'official' accounts might miss.”

“Like The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore.” Cho abruptly seems more subdued. “I can't say it was one of my favorites, but...it explained a lot. And not just about Professor Dumbledore.” 

Pansy's heard the first half of Cho's review from other people before, but not the second. “How so?”

Cho hesitates: whether unsure where to begin, or if she should at all, Pansy can't tell. “After what happened to Cedric,” she says at last, slowly, “I thought I understood how short and precious life really was. It's why I decided to be a Healer, instead of a Quidditch player. I figured even if my life could never be truly happy again, I could still help other people. But somehow, until the Battle of Hogwarts, I didn't realize that my time was limited, too – and I didn't want to waste it. 

“So I put my apprenticeship on hold and took some time to think about my future. I read, I traveled. I even enrolled in a Muggle school.” She pauses, as though watching Pansy carefully for a reaction, but any reflexive revulsion from Pansy's upbringing is overruled by her interest in where this story is going. “And eventually, I realized the reason I was so dissatisfied with everything wasn't about Cedric. Or Harry, or Michael. Or any boy, really.” The caution, though not the implicit challenge, is gone now as she stares directly at Pansy. “Because none of them were what I wanted.”

“Oh.” Pansy's notepad lies abandoned on the table beside her. Her training tells her she should pick it up, but even if she wanted to, it seems the wrong move. “And did you...find it?”

“Not yet. There was somebody in one of my classes, but she couldn't handle my study schedule.” Cho's laughter is a trace too light, her smile edged with a hint of pain. “You can take the girl out of Ravenclaw, but...”

“I'm sorry,” says Pansy, before realizing how that might sound. “I mean, about your relationship. I know breakups are never easy.”

“Really?” Cho leans back, surprised. “I always thought you and Malfoy–”

It is Pansy's turn to hesitate, as she thinks back on her desperate efforts to spark _something_ by clinging to Malfoy in public, his frustrated private eruptions of _“Dammit, Parkinson, do you have to be so frigid?”_, and the ultimate, merciful end of their arrangement in the aftermath of the war. “We...weren't what the other wanted, either.”

“I see,” says Cho, looking Pansy over as though searching for something she missed before. And while Pansy knows she should jump in to clarify that no, that isn't what she meant at all, she's not so sure that Cho isn't seeing things more clearly than she is. Nor does she mind the appraisal.

“But enough about Hogwarts,” she stammers at last into the ensuing silence. “Tell me about your Muggle school. Do they really make you wear protective gear during Potions?”

That single question sets off a chain reaction of stories from Cho, each more engrossing than the previous one. It isn't until Pansy picks up the tea she could've sworn a server just dropped off and realizes it has gone cold that she bothers to look at the clock. “Merlin's beard! The hour's almost up, and we've barely even talked about the battle.”

“Oh, dear.” Cho sounds not the slightest bit remorseful. “I suppose that means we'll have to do this again.”

Pansy smiles, and feels a bit of her mysterious future begin to take shape. “I suppose so.”


End file.
